


Couch Installation

by aura218



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, M/M, New Years, it's complicated - Freeform, lads, not gay, ttoi rp, ttoi rp blogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aura218/pseuds/aura218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Day, Fergus showed up on Adam's doorstep cold, wet, unable to go home. Now Adam isn't terribly inclined to make him. Inspired by the ttoi rp blogs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lad Mags

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my betas Valentina and Davy.

Fucking steps, fucking frozen London, fucking pissing rain -- oh. Fuck. Fucking broken gutter. Fix your fucking gutter, Adam's landlord. What a shithole he lived in. Fucking puddles. Fucking wet socks. Fucking schizo Georgie abducting him to France and taking him on a magical mystery tour, happy 2013! now get the fuck out my car, mate, gotta score.

If fucking Adam was wrapped up in some bird's twat right now, Fergus would literally flay him and wear him as a skin suit.

Fergus fished his phone out of his pocket. Just in case it buzzed. He wasn't sodding Emma, who constantly checked her arse for phantom buzzing. (Hah! Anal toys were funny.) He didn't fucking care if people called him -- he went whole quarter hours blissfully ignoring screeching ministers dumping shit on DoSAC like the compost heap it was. Adam regularly screamed at him over missing stuff.

Fuck Adam, fucking slut of an infidelous press-adviser-to-all-the-ministers.

"Pick up your fucking mobile you wanker. . . . Did you lose it up her twat? Did she jam it up yours? Is she calling it every ten minutes in agonizing vibratey torture --"

"Whose twat?"

Fergus leapt to his feet in an impressive show of agility, given he couldn't feel them. "Finally! The fuck were you?"

"Jesus, what happened to you?" Adam unlocked the door as Fergus generally tried to appear as a proud Englishman, and not some homeless person.

"Kind of you to ask! I lost my keys. And as my landlord's gone on holiday . . . "

Adam waved him into the flat. Ah, glorious heat. Lovely things, heaters.

"Sit," Adam said. "Wait! Coat."

Fergus placed it in his demanding hand. Adam held it away from himself as he walked it into the airing cupboard to hang over the pipes. Fergus felt a bit insulted -- he wasn't actually disgusting, he only appeared to be. He took off his shoes and stood dripping in the foyer.

Adam looked him over and sighed. "All right, c'mon. You can have a shower and my spare jammies, but it's just for the night."

"Thank you!" Fergus ran for the toilet, leaping over the ottoman in his relief -- _not_ to hug or anything, he wasn't a _fairy_ , but Adam dodged like a halfback.

"Astoundingly pathetic."

#

To make up for it, next morning Fergus burned the toast and made runny eggs.

Adam ate them despite the wobbly middles.

They didn't talk about how Fergus was going to unlock his flat.

#

Two days later, Adam hadn't complained too much about the mulch of take-away and newspapers Fergus had skillfully arranged in the general landing zone of the sofa. He politely stepped around Fergus' 'area,' as he lay curled upon the sofa, sniffling, and passed him a cup of tea.

"You really are pathetic." Adam sat beside him and switched over to Peruvian footie. "I've never met a person who could catchflu in less than twenty-four hours."

"I've not got flu, arsebutt. I'm allergic to your -- your . . ."

But there was nothing to be allergic to in Adam's crisp, steel, and hard-wood flat. The furniture was leather; there was no clutter, no lived-in disaster area before Fergus provided one. Fergus wasn't a _boy_ , he knew you didn't leave your washing until your last pair of pants was inside-out, but he liked a certain comfortable level of filth.

"To what?" Adam glanced at him, genuinely concerned.

"Fuck off."

Adam poked him with his bare toe. Fergus smacked his forehead with the back of his hand. Adam should have shouted or called him a punter. He caught the hand, squeezed it, and chucked it back at Fergus. Weird.

"What the fuck are you watching?" Fergus said. "Is this in English?"

"My house, my footie."

"Bollocks, give me that." Fergus lunged for the remote on the opposite sofa arm.

Adam's knee bucked up, under his chest, and knocked the wind from him. "Sod off!"

"Give it!" Fergus wheezed.

Adam's fingers wrapped around the remote. He waved it over his head. Fergus held his bruised internal fucking organs into his body cavity and lunged over the back of the sofa.

"Are you twelve?" Fergus said. "I want to watch _Eastenders_!"

"You fucking nonce, we're not watching --"

Fergus was grasping for leverage by _wrapping his arm_ around Adam's _manly manly_ muscled neck. Like a fucking fainting princess. Fergus looked down. Right into Adam's eyes. He'd never thought about the color of Adam's eyes. He had a wrinkle-thing between them, but that was the wrong word, because they were young men, blokes, boys, they couldn't have wrinkles.

"Fine, take it," Adam said.

Fergus blinked. The remote was a solid pressure against his chest. He took it.

"Sorry." He folded himself into the corner of the sofa. He could feel the cold where their points of contact had been.

Adam shifted. Fergus looked. Looked away. Oh, fuck, he was hard too.

 _Eastenders_ wasn't on. _Top Gear_.

"This okay?"

"Yeah."

#

Adam was out. Fergus, claiming ill, was pretending to be sleeping with the television on.

He was thinking about women. Lush, round, big-tittied birds, hand in their hair and their mouths on his cock. He had about half a stalk. He could work with that. He slid his hand down Adam's spare jams and got to doing the thing he'd been good at since he'd been a scrod.

Adam's jams. Adam's pants. Adam's fucking sofa.

Fergus growled. He got up, went into the bath, shucked himself naked, and started the shower. Waiting for the hot water, while the cold puddled around his feet, he leaned back against the cool tile wall and circled his palm over the head of his dick. He'd lost a bit of his erection, but he could get it back.

He didn't have a go-to girl, just a set of features: a smile, medium-sized tits, legs around his waist. He liked thinking of her beneath him, submissively allowing him to do whatever he wanted to her. Or on her knees, in a shower like this, her heart-bottomed arse hovering above her heels as her head bobbed and he fucked into her warm, wet mouth . . .

He shifted along the cold tile, moving his body into the spray, let it hit warm down his chest and arms, run between his thighs. Good. He was getting there. He tried not to notice the predictable, rhythmic noises that took him out of hi-her mouth. If he had lube, he could almost make his hand sound like the suckling of a mouth, but . . . oh.

Adam had lube in his shower. Fergus stopped. Closed his eyes. He didn't see it. It wasn't there. There was the dark-haired girl on her knees, wet hair and raindrops running sweet lines down her back, and she was telling him she's so happy to be sucking him off . . . rolling his balls in her hand while she fingered her arse with her own lubed-up fingers --

 Fergus's orgasm hit him by surprise. His hips thrust and he shouted, only realizing when his cry echoed back in the small cubical. The girl faded into the mist. He watched thin, white semen swirl down the drain. One more abomination upon the lord.

He leaned against the wall, hot and light-headed. He turned the water to tepid and ran his head under it, shaking his hair out like a pup. Jesus. He should wank in other people's houses more often.

A quick wash, then, as he stood with his back to the shelf that held Adam's shame. Who the hell keeps sex stuff in their shower? Freak. Fergus turned the hot water back up to let his sinuses drain -- generally sucking up Adam's gas bill as recompense for the mental anguish of having to wonder what he _lubed_ in a fucking shower. Maybe his girlfriend was tight. Maybe she liked anal. Did Adam have a girlfriend?

The bottle hadn't been there the night before.

"Freak," Fergus muttered as he wrapped the towel around his waist.

Maybe lube was some household plumbing aid. Maybe it wasn't sex lube. He hadn't looked at it that closely. Hell, maybe it was hair potion and Adam was embarrassed he was going bald. _So embarrassed he'd rather advertise that he fucks himself in the arse in his shower._

"Fucking weird."

"What's fucking weird?"

Adam was on the sofa.

"Jesus! Are you a cat?" Fergus's fist gripped the edge of his towel.

"Name's not Jesus," Adam said to his novel. Adam read books? "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," Fergus said quickly. "I was showering. I shower. Habit I picked up as a child, thought I might keep it up."

"Well thank dad for that. You feeling any better?" Adam looked at him.

"No," Fergus said. "Well, right now I am, because, I just showered. Like I said. I was in the shower, where there is hot water. And -- and hot water makes you feel better when your brain is coming out of your nose. You know?"

Adam stared at him, like _he_ was the one with problems. "Yeah, I see what you mean about that."

Fergus chucked his thumb over his shoulder. The towel slipped down his hip. He caught it. "Right. So. I'm going back in there, because you're here, and. I need to put clothes on now. Your clothes -- hah!" He couldn't laugh on cue. Adam was studying him like when the school officials had to decide if he needed more one-on-one attention. "So I'm going to . . . put my clothes on in the loo now. Alone."

He spun on the ball of his foot and slipped.

"So I'll just turn off the CCTV, then?" Adam called. "Fergus-vision! The biggest reality tv show to hit the Beebs this season!"

The fucker could really cackle when he thought he was funny.


	2. Eggs

The lube disappeared, and Fergus made eggs daily. He wasn't sure what the connection was, but he _had_ to learn to make them properly, or kill Adam trying. It pissed him off that Adam could make fucking steak and ham and burgers and even a goddamn turkey sandwich _perfectly_ , without risk of salmonella or e. coli. He even knew what kind of mustard went with his stinky countryside cheese; but Adam only ate Fergus' eggs because he started buying pasteurized.

"You've got to preheat the pan," Adam said the evening Fergus devoted to conquering eggy bread. "You lack patience, Padawan."

"You sound like my mum," he snapped back. Adam's narrow, alley kitchen was too elbow-y for one busy chef plus one nosy git.

Adam snaked his arm around Fergus and snapped on the burner under the naked pan. "Sometimes mums are right."

"You just set the pan on fire!" Fergus squawked.

Adam grabbed him by the pockets, towing him from the worktop. "Stop. Think about what you just said."

Fergus blinked at the stove. "My dad smacked me once for running the microwave with nothing in it."

Adam turned him around, still anchored by the pockets and a stupid, cocky grin on his face. Fergus did a little cha-cha to free his hips, waving a spatula to take a fucker down.

"Well, outside the super-fast world of lightening cookery," Adam said, "we preheat. It's okay, really. I'll let you know before you _melt aluminum with a household appliance._ " He did jazz hands to punctuate his speech.

"You're such a poof," Fergus muttered. "When do I put the bread down?"

Adam came at him with a knife!!!!! of butter. Fergus peeled himself off the wall and watched the glob of butter glide and sizzle in the pan. Adam tilted it, skillfully Ice-Capading the butter around the pan. Fergus shifted his weight -- and his toes brushed Adam's socks. If Adam noticed, he didn't react.

"When the butter is a liquid," Adam said quietly, as Fergus watched the butter turn clear and smelled the clean linen smell from Adam's tshirt, "then you can put down the first slice."

Fergus hmm'd. Coffee drizzled from the electric pot. "Okay."

#

After breakfast, they left the dishes sit in the sink and bickered over how to connect Adam's iPad to his mammoth television. Today was the day of illegally watching the entire _National Lampoon's_ oeuvre.

"Look, who's the minister here, I ought to know --"

" _Look_ , who's the fucking media assistant, you should let me --"

It was the first mention of work in three days. It didn't matter. New Year's was only three days gone; they weren't expected back for weeks. Fergus was starting to feel like he was on school holidays, visiting his Scottish cousins -- weeks outside time when his friends were too far to ring, he was trapped by winter, and he lived by pajamas and cereal.

"Who're you talking to?" Adam said halfway through the film.

"Mannion's wife, through her blog." On screen, Peter Griswold and his hot wife had a _hilarious misunderstanding_ over light switches.

"Why?" Adam sat up. "Let me see. Are you being stupid?"

"No, I'm being clever." He detached the phone from its borrowed charger and passed it over. The room lit up like a police search from the sudden white-out on the tv.

"She's nice," Adam observed, scrolling. "Why in hell is she talking to you?"

"Dunno. Misplaced maternal instincts?"

"Very misplaced." Adam reshuffled, feet creeping _over his half_ of the middle cushion, tangling up with Fergus' ankles.

"Oy," Fergus kicked. "Short legs go on their side."

"How the fuck old are you? I feel like I'm back at home. Cool it, I'm trying to enjoy this comedy classic."

Fergus sighed, tucking up his legs. It was a comedy classic. One of the last great lad films of the 80s. Peter Griswold was a fucking hero.

By the time the cat was chewing on the Christmas tree lights, Adam's feet were halfway up his trouser cuffs. That was bloody it -- this was his favorite part! Fergus bloody hated cats, he waited all year for this scene!

The tv speakers exploded, the cat was a scorch mark and a puff of fur, and Adam howled with laughter. But the moment was ruined. Adam's socked feet were creeping up Fergus' calves, and he could only think, _why_. It was deliberate. They were still co-workers.

"You're a fucking idiot," Fergus said.

Adam looked at him with that 'don't keep me after school, it was Fergus, Miss, I'd never set fire to a student's tie in chemistry lab' face. His fucking face. Fergus could punch him. Because the mere implication that your male assistant was hitting on you would only read as _but you invited the attention, didn't you? He must have read a whiff of_ eau de _gay_. And for the rest of your career, you weren't MP Fergus Williams, you were Out Gay MP Fergus Williams.

"We're not doing this," Fergus slung his feet onto the floor.

"Doing what?"

"Shut up. We. Are. Not. Doing this. Okay?"

Adam turned off the tv. The silent iPad flickered colored light on the ceiling in the dim, grey room.  

"I'm -- I'm sorry, mate, I don't --"

"I told you to shut up."

Fergus tackled him.

Adam fought back, he didn't understand, until Fergus pinned his wrists to his sides and shoved his mouth against his neck.

Adam stilled. Fergus mouthed the stubbly skin, teeth grazing, waiting to be shoved or teased or bloody punched. Carefully, he released one of Adam's wrists, and when nothing violent happened, he shoved it up under his shirt. Adam's hand fluttered at his shoulder, hesitant taps.

Hard muscle, of course, just miles of it under that shirt. Fergus released Adam's other hand and it joined the first. He buried his face in Adam's neck and his knee between his legs, and he rocked. He couldn't look up, didn't know _what the fuck_ was happening, only that he wanted to keep licking and biting at the other man's neck. Adam had his fingers in his hair and was gasping words like _oh -- oh sweet lord_ like Fergus was doing something right, or he was just too astonished this was happening.

Because this was deeply stupid. He was handing Adam his career on a silver platter. Anything good that happened to him after this was just stupid luck. He was committing career suicide, right now. Worse, Fergus had known it was going come to this and he had stayed.

Fergus held on to Adam, and stopped him when his hands started to roam, and just rocked. Gasped, and sucked at the hollow of his throat, and finally got up the courage to work his hand down his belly and let his fingertips explore _his cock_ _another man's cock hard hot that's the head he's bigger how is that supposed to go in me well it's not not ever I'm not sucking that_

Somehow, while he was distracted, Adam untied the drawstring of the pj bottoms slung low over Fergus' hips and thrust his hand down his pants. Everything. Stopped.

Fergus wondered what an aneurism felt like. He saw them, the sofa, the back of his own head, his splayed legs, his arse up in the air allowing Adam's hand -- it was moving. He'd gotten _his fingers around his cock another man's hand around his cock it knew what to do no air_

Fergus pulled up, gasping. A string of snot and spit trailed from his mouth to Adam's neck. He'd soaked the collar of his shirt. He wiped his mouth. Adam's hand was still moving; he was looking at the ceiling over Fergus' shoulder. The walls winked, and their eyes met. The corner of Adam's mouth turned up. Fergus thought of cartoon villains, and he understood the term _predatory gay_.

They didn't know that he'd asked to be prey.

"Go ahead," Adam said, thick in his throat. "I want to see you come."

_I want to see I want I want to see you_

Fergus planted his elbow into the fleshy back of the sofa as Adam's hand tugged him and the tension curled in his stomach. The cool, grainy leather grew as hot and clammy as his skin. For the rest of his life, he knew the smell of leather would remind him of this. _Jesus I'm losing my gayginity on fucking black leather._ He buried his eyes in the crook of his elbow, grabbed a handful of pliant sofa, and came over Adam's hand.

He swallowed, catching his breath. Adam's hand moved off his cock. He smelled sweat and leather, the eggy plates on the coffee table. Tinny Griswolds played from the miniature Apple speakers. Adam's sticky hand was guiding his to his own, still-erect cock. Fergus made a noise he wanted to sound like English, but came out as a whimper.

"What's wrong?"  Adam's voice sounded very far away.

Fergus scrambled off of him. He pulled himself together, tucking and tying. Adam was indecently splayed on his side of the sofa.

"Oh. . . . Oh, hey, was that your first time with a bloke? Jesus, Fergus, you should have told me."

The muscles in his thighs spasmed. He wanted his Adam back. He wanted to be teased, shouted at, beat up, called names -- disgusting, poofter.

"I need a shower," Fergus said.

He ran for the bathroom. He didn't look at Adam as he passed.

#

When he came out, Adam was in his room with the door shut. Wanking, probably.

Fergus washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. He turned the film back on to see the end, but the stupid fucking 80s just pissed him off.

He took a nap with the news instead.


	3. The Ennui

"You could call a locksmith," Adam said on the fourth day.

"Do you want me to call a locksmith?"

"Don't be a fucking woman."

Fergus went back to sleep. It was only half eleven in the morning.

#

He woke to a door slamming.

"Have you _moved_? Jesus, mate, I think you've genetically blended to my sofa." Adam passed him, crinkling bags, and started smacking groceries into the cupboards. "Did you do anything today? Clean anything? . . . Shower?"

"Sod off." Fergus shoved off the sofa and thumped into the toilet. He emerged fifteen minutes later, fresher, shaved, tooth-brushed.

Adam was changing the sheets. "Can you at least fold up your nest when you're not sleeping in it?"

Fergus rolled his eyes.

Adam collected his breakfast and lunch dishes. "I don't know, mate, maybe you should call a -- oof!"

The breath huffed out of Adam's lungs as Fergus shoved him against the wall. He didn't think about it -- he just went in. Fergus didn't like snogging in general, it was too much . . . touching. Sex was usually a lot about getting into other people's hygiene; he didn't often fancy spending that much time around another person without becoming disgusted. Meanwhile, he'd been snogging his (best? only?) friend for at least two minutes and didn't have the slightest need to hurl.

Maybe it was the numbing depression.

Fergus didn't know what was supposed to happen next, but he was getting some good feedback on angling them towards the bedroom, so he did some more of that. Ah, beds. He'd almost forgotten about those. Adam's was cool and messy and had a red blanket, not a duvet. Somehow, Fergus' clothes were coming off and he was getting between the slate grey sheets.

He couldn't be naked with another person -- with _Adam_ \-- and just be out there, without blankets. He thought of pirates ( _arse bandit)_ , open sea, storms, as he pressed his body onto Adam's beneath him. Oh, okay . . . new. It was Adam, right? _Open your eyes, of course it's Adam._

It was weird to be snogging someone and, like, doing sexy things with them, and opening your eyes and it's your best friend. If he started the snogging, he was supposed to be steering, wasn't he? The one who knows what the fuck was going on.

"Are we having sex?" Fergus said.

Adam sort of choked on his own spit. Someone's spit. "Um. Say again?"

"No, I know -- I mean, is this sex. For gay people. Is this, like, what you do?" Fergus peered down at him, body braced on his forearms.

Adam laughed. Fergus had never been _laughed at_. Adam leaned up and kissed him. "I can't decide if you're adorable, or you need to be dropped into Soho on a Saturday night and left to fend for yourself. What do you think's going on here?"

Fergus slid off of him. "Um. We're, you know. Messing around."

"Uh huh?"

"What? Do we have to label everything? Do we have to do it _now_?"

Adam laid his hand flat on the center of his chest. More 'caring Adam,' bloody 'infant school monitor' Adam. Fucking Adam. "No, love, we don’t."

"Don't fucking call me --"

"I'm sorry. No, ruthless Sith lord, we don't have to _label_ things. But you can tell me if there's things you don't want to do."

"Don't touch my arse."

Adam snorted. "I figured."

"Do you like that?"

"No."

"Liar."

Adam got up on his elbow, looking down at him. "Would it upset you if I said I did?"

"Are you like, totally gay? And just lying about it?"

Adam leaned down and kissed him. "I thought we weren't labeling things." He kissed him again while Fergus tried to parse that. "I thought we were just 'messing around.'" Kiss. "So what's it matter what I am, or what you are?"

Fergus kissed back, pressing Adam flat, getting his upper hand back. He thought of preserves jars, how the lid is wired shut so tight, until you flip the little flippers, and then it all falls apart.

"Yeah. Okay."

Later, when he went back to his sofa to sleep, Fergus felt a little broken inside, but not in a bad way. He felt less stuffy in the head; it was all running down his throat, now. He got a beer and a snack, and settled in.

He pulled out Adam's iPad, pestered Mrs. Mannion on her blog a little, and then logged into Google Docs.

He started to work.

#

Adam was his best mate, his advisor, his Sancho. It didn't matter that they did . . . stuff. They worked independently; he wasn't his direct supervisor, so it was no one's fucking business. And they were still friends -- they still played video games and went to their corners during the day, and Adam went out to be that Adam-about-town when Fergus-on-the-sofa was too fucking annoying. Nothing had to change.

"I've got a date," Adam said.

"What? You've -- when? Why?" Fergus stared at him from the sink.

"Tonight. Because she's cute." Adam shook pepper flakes over his eggs. "I'll try to go back to hers, but if we come back here, can you go be a good hobbit and hide in my room?"

"Why can't you fuck her in your room like a normal person?"

Adam looked up, fork piercing his breakfast. The yellow of his poached egg ran across the grey plate. Everything was grey at Adam's. Grey or black or fucking red. It was like living in a fucking comic strip, like that old music video, except there was no punching out.

 "Girls don't like it if you take them straight to your bedroom, they think you're a rapist," Adam said.

"No they don't," Fergus said. Did they? He rarely got a girl past the living room. He kept spot treatment in his cupboard.

"Look. Be a mate. Don't cockblock me, after all I've put up with, right?"

Fergus knew he was sulking, and that Adam hated it by the way he ignored him. _He_ wasn't the one who put the lube in the shower. He wasn't the one who initiated the gropey-wanky-sex-thing in the kitchen last night.

Fergus spent the day playing games on Adam's Xbox Live account. He talked to Mrs. Mannion and felt like someone's son. Like maybe he could tell his own mother he was a poofter now and she wouldn't accidentally slash his head open with her wooden spoon like the time he 'borrowed' dad's car and plowed it into the garden wall because his feet didn't reach the pedals, and oh yeah, he'd been thirteen.

He went on HotOrNot.com and slagged on some budding porn princesses, just because. Fuck you, you whore, he thought. He hadn't wanked off to the thought of a female blow job in days.

At six, Adam went out. Fergus was bored, itchy, and some other stuff he didn't feel like thinking about. He thought about drinking, but felt wretched and useless enough without adding scenes from his dad's wasted middle age to his night.

He wanted to _do something_. Fergus left his clothes in a pile in the living room and went into the shower.

He found the lube in the drawer beside the sink. He poked through the other _supplies_ in there, thinking about how involved he had it in him to try. In the end, he rolled a condom over his fingers, and took the lube into the shower with him.

_If he can do this, I can do it._

It hurt.

He stood nauseated in the shower, asking himself why the fuck he was doing the one thing he said he'd never do.

 The tips of his fingers weren't clean. Not knowing what else to do, he washed them hard with soap, then stepped out and threw away the condom, used the toilet, and got another condom packet. He had a long wash this time, watching his 'materials' on the shower ledge while he sudsed himself over and over. He didn't feel anything. Even his nerves were sloughing off and running away down the plughole. It occurred to him that there might be a proper way to do this, or even a dangerous way.

He opened the condom with his teeth, hands shaking, and started again with one finger. He wished he had something else to concentrate on, music maybe. . . . What would someone else be doing, if they wanted him to feel good? He touched himself back there, just the outside. It didn't feel bad. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles. It felt okay . . . nice. Blood pounded in his ears. He got down on his knees like at practice, wishing for a football to balance on.

He realized one of those toys in the drawer were _made_ to be doing the job better -- hitting the spots he was sort of finding with pleasure while trying to avoid pain. He stopped, relubed, and went at it at an angle. The tip of his finger slid in. He gasped. It didn't feel good, exactly, but not bad either. He was just surprised at his own success.

_This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_

His knees were aching. Fergus bit his lip, playing through the pain, and pressed a little harder. Could he hurt himself? It felt okay. He wasn't hard, but he thought he could be, if he kept at it. He wasn't a complete idiot, he knew basic biology, and the rolling thing he had going on with his wrist was working out pretty well.

Where's the prostate?

Fergus slid his finger out, actually _feeling_ that, which felt nice but also sort of slithery and disgusting, in a familiar way. He relubed and easily slid his index finger in up to his second knuckle. Oh, wow. He was really getting into it now. (Still didn't make him gay.) He shuffled around on his aching knees, probably abrading them on the tile floor, to free up his left hand. He got his balls out of the way and pressed three fingers flat against his perineum. Oh, wow. That one he knew felt good, but now he felt it from both sides.

He pressed in again, deeper, and angled his finger down. He rocked a little, hips gently thrusting, finger sliding in and out. He didn't want this to be a penis, most definitely not, but the motion was nice. Soothing. He wriggled his right middle finger in the lube and slid it in beside his index finger. It felt good, really good. Yeah, he was doing well, wasn't he? Christ, if it wasn't manly to fucking reach inside yourself and play with your fucking guts --

"Ohhh, fuck yeah." He'd found it. His fingers had pushed past his second knuckles, just popped in, and brushed against that spot inside himself, like a grape.

He pushed it again. Stars broke behind his eyes. Yesssss. His hips ground. He pressed his hands together, one outside and one inside himself, and rubbed that spot. He was so hard now.

He heard a door slam. His name.

Fergus' hips snapped. Adam did this, didn't he? Adam, here, then, his hands buried inside him. Driving him mad, making him beg for it --

"Are you here?" Adam called.

Fergus shouted as he came.

Silence from the outer room. Water spattering the tile.

It hurt a little to slide his fingers out. He sat for a moment, listening to Adam in the kitchen, catching his breath. All the blood in his body seemed to be pulsing in his temples. His knees creaked; the impression of the tiles lined the flesh of his legs. He washed up and threw away the condom. He listened for the sound of alien voices in the flat.

He left the bottle of lube on the shower shelf.

#

Fergus had his headphones on, listening to a podcast on his phone, when Adam came to bed.

"Are you sleeping in here tonight?" Adam stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips. He looked like someone's boss, commanding all the authority of a grumpy news editor. Please scold me, sir, I dropped my Oxford comma.

"You said I should." Fergus closed his eyes and listened to Radio 4.

"If she came back here."

Fergus touched his finger to his lips, pointing to the phone. _Work_ , he mouthed. Adam rolled his eyes and got undressed. Fergus watched him through slitted eyes. Adam turned, all defined, hairy chest and miles of ropy muscles; Fergus couldn't pretend to be dozing, the way Adam raised his eyebrows. _Are we going to have this out now?_

Fergus lifted his chin. "Nice pants."

Adam rounded the bed, making a show of adjusting his pillow, turning down his blankets. He took off his watch and set his alarm. Ignoring Fergus, his hands flicked to his hips, thumbs catching the elastic, and nudged the pants over and down, to the floor. His slid beneath the sheets. Fergus closed his eyes and resumed his podcast. Adam's hand crossed the space between them, hovered, so Fergus could feel the heat just above his chest. His chest hairs were displaced as Adam moved his hand down, across, up again, and lit over his heart.

Fergus unplugged the headphones. "Why?"

"We're not a couple, Fergus."

"I _know_."

"Do you want --"

"No."

"Okay, then."

Fergus turned off his podcast and set his phone in the nest of wires with its headphony compatriots. Those three had been through so much together. He wriggled under the covers and then kicked his own pants off the edge of the bed. Jockeys overboard.

Adam pulled at his arm. "What?" Fergus said.

"C'mere."

"What're you doing?"

"Oh, my god, you don't even know what cuddling is, you utter plank. And by plank I mean _building material_." Adam pulled Fergus' arm over him like a blanket. He tried to get comfortable and not crush anyone's stones.

"Where does the other arm go?"

Adam growled and wriggled beneath him. "Just -- can you get comfortable? Just kind of -- yeah. You've really never done this? Are you a _cactus_?"

"Yes, Adam, I'm an MP representing the cactus population." His arm was going to go numb underneath him like a beached whale. When they were ashore, whales' flippers were too weak to support their massive bodies. Fergus was keeping all his weight on his one arm, trying not to crush Adam's ribcage.

"I'm starting to think most of the sex you have is paid for," Adam joked.

They lay in silence.

"I'm afraid we won't be friends if we keep doing this." It was the most honest thing Fergus had said in at least a month.

Adam's hand roamed over his back. It was so warm under that blanket. How did that work? At Fergus', he had two duvets and an afghan and he was always freezing.

"You've never had a friend with benefits?" Adam said.

Is that what this was? "No. Yes. Um. I'm not sure. She was a lovely lass of indiscriminate morals who was making her way through our intramural foosball team, and we considered it lucky if she let you --"

"Fergus."

"Do you want to be _boyfriend_ s?"

"I don't think it's a good idea. No offense, mate, I think you'd be a nightmare."

"You'd be the drama queen."

"Not to mention that if it ever came out --"

"Yeah. . . ." More of the skin-petting. Fergus liked that. Adam respected the body hairs, he didn't go pulling them like they led to gold the way women did. "But . . . I really hate dating. Women are sort of evil and they hate it when you have to abandon them places because your work phone is blowing up and . . . is it wrong that I like you better? Also I like sex."

Adam laughed. "I adore you."

Then there was kissing, and that was much easier than talking.

#

_We're invited to the Mannions' for dinner_ , Fergus texted to Adam on the sixth day. _We're going to strategize the fuck out of this._

"What was that?" Fergus said as they stood on the wide, frozen street outside the Mannions' mansion.

Adam furiously Googled for civilization. No fucking cabs on the plush, broad avenues of paradise.

"She got us out of there right quick, didn't she?" Fergus said.

"It didn't work, is what happened. Peter might be old and doesn't give a fuck, but he's wily."

Fergus started walking. "She knew. She fucking knew we're fucking."

Adam looked around. "Say it a little louder, you idiot. There's paps in the fucking bushes, this is Tory country!"

"She was _happy_! Mannion must know, too. Oh, we are royally screwed, my friend." Fergus stalked down a well-heeled lane with a vengeance.

"Do you even care where you're going?" Adam trailed behind while Google maps searched for a server. When he caught up, Fergus was emptying a bread bag of small, grey things over the railing of a decorative footbridge.

"What're you doing?" Adam said. "Are those --"

"Shellfish," Fergus said, as the half-dead mollusks plopped into the stream. He looked at Adam with open-faced expectancy. "You said we should leave them a parting gift."

Adam shoved off from the railing, hands in the cold air. "I meant a Post-it stuck to the mirror saying 'gotcha' after we talked him into funding something, you disgusting toddler. Did you have those in your pocket the whole time? No wonder you smell like France."

Fergus shrugged, watching his temporary pets sink. Goodbye Marsha, goodbye Greg. There weren't many swimmers left in the bunch. Adam returned to his side, watching him shake the clingers from the plastic.

"Aren't those salt water guys?"

Fergus shrugged. "I guess I'm feeding the rainbow trout, then. Or a clever match girl who gets thrown off someone's stoop tonight."

Adam nodded. "Where'd you get them?"

"Asian market on Chestnut."

"Oh!" Adam cried in dismay. "I love that stall. Let's go back, I'll teach you how to make a bisque."

They started for the main road, ditching the dripping bag in a constituent's letter box.

#

Work was a red ball rising on their horizon.

The bed was a war zone, strip-mined to base sheet, blankets blasted to the floor, top sheet gnarled and clinging to the mattress like a mostly-severed limb. The pause menu blared in the background, but a foot had sent one of the wireless controllers sailing behind the dresser. Their squadron had long called them pussies and fags and abandoned them (Americans, the only ones raiding at three in the morning). Decimated flatware and dead soldiers were strewn about the room like shrapnel. The room's two occupants lay half-hazard across the bed, careless of their state.

Adam was examining a crescent pattern of tiny scars on Fergus' knee -- an ugly pattern, distorted by growth, covered over with a speckle of hair that grew right up between the puncture marks.

"What did you do to get bit?" Adam said.

"Oy. Why you think I did something?" Fergus' head hung off the bed. He was counting the hex-screws on Adam's obviously flat-pack wardrobe. He couldn't decide if it was starting to warp, or if that was just him.

Adam pressed his thumb into the concave side of the scar. "Because I know you now."

"Threatened her Cabbage Patch Encephalitic Orphan," Fergus said. "You know how expensive those ugly fuckers were? All I wanted that Christmas was a fucking skateboard, but oy, no, Fergus, you'll break your face -- but then Gran buys all the girls fucking thirty pound import trendy trolls."

Adam smiled, pulled Fergus back onto the bed. "Come back to me."

Fergus landed on top of him and snuggled into his chest. Adam groped around for a blanket, but there was nothing to cover them, so he wrapped up in the warmth of his friend and thought it would be nice to just stay like this a little while longer.

"I guess I could call a lock smith tomorrow," Fergus said.

Adam nodded. "Yeah."

"Probably shouldn't turn up to the office in the same thing I wore two weeks ago," Fergus said.

Adam ran his fingers in Fergus' hair. "I'll drive you home."

When they sun went down, they ordered dinner. Adam cleaned up the bedroom and Fergus magnanimously hooked the Xbox back up to the big tv. They played Wii _Fit_ half-heartedly after dinner, and went to bed, separately. 


	4. Life

When the locksmith let them in, his overstuffed letter box overflowed; the heavy paper cascaded under the door, blocking the three men from entering. While Fergus went to look for his cheque book, he heard Adam stacking the envelopes and magazines -- including the end of year giant issue of fucking _Men's Health._ The expression the very large, Greek-or-something locksmith who charged extra on weekends gave the pair of them was quite assuming. Yeah, you insightful member of the voting public, I have done sexual things with this man.

I don't know if I'll get to do them again.

Adam stacked his mail on the entry table like a good assistant while Fergus paid and tipped the intruder until he went away.

The apartment was blue-cold, silent as an indie film about a married couple who'd long ago fallen out of love.

"So --"

"You didn't have to walk me up," Fergus said. "No, stupid, I mean --"

"It was stupid to walk you up?"

"No!" Fergus pointed at the mail. "Thank you! That was very helpful."

Adam arched an eyebrow and reached for the door. "O-kay. Well, I'll see you --"

"Do you want to go? Because -- " Fergus waved. "I think -- no, um, I guess there's nothing to eat. There's . . . tea? Or whiskey, maybe?"

Adam studied him. "Do you want me to stay?"

"I dunno. You can go." Fergus fiddled with the corner of a magazine. Idris Elba was naked to his boxer-briefs on the cover, posing; Adam had given him the subscription for his birthday as a gag. Or something.

"If you want me to stay, just ask me."

"You're the one who walked up here." Fergus heard the nasal whine in his voice and didn't fucking care.

"Right, I asked for it," Adam monotoned. "What do you want, Fergus?"

Adam had trapped him in the kitchen, standing there -- in his . . . shirt -- attractive and confident next to Fergus' seldom used worktop. Fergus could smell the fake cologne-scent in his deodorant, how much better that goo smelled on Adam than when he smeared it on himself. When was a friend a guy you wanted around, and when did you just _want_ him? Was this a craving for acceptance and love, something human in his extroverted yet lonely life? Maybe he didn't need the cuddling and fucking. Maybe Fergus needed a puppy.

"I don't want to go back to work," Fergus said. "I don't want you to be my 'assistant.' I don't want a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a partner or a wife. I'm scared -- I don't want to be old someday and stuck hating someone I married because she was the woman who looked good in the newspapers and our kids would look like human beings probably. I don't -- I --" his voice trembled. He shoved off the worktop. This was stupid. "I'm sorry."

Adam followed him into the flat's open, center room, reaching for him. "Okay. That's what you don't want."

Fergus shook off Adam's hand. He paced around the stupid expensive sofa in the conversation nook on the modernist square rug and ducked under the imitation Calder art piece. He thought of the first act of _Fight Club_ , only the flats around here stopped at the third floor and his windows opened just fine.

"We can't be a thing," Fergus said.

"Why's that?" Adam perched on the sofa arm, kicked off his trainers.

Fergus tried facing him, but felt held stiff by wires. "You want kids."

"I do?"

"You're old and settled."

"I'm five years older than you and as settled as I want to be."

Fergus left side slumped. "I'm not gay."

"Neither am I. Strictly."

Fergus looked up at his post-uni, museum gift shop mobile. It was supposed to be a peacock in flight. He had one trump card left. "It'll ruin our careers."

Adam shoved himself to his feet. He took Fergus' hands and placed them around his waist. Fergus was forced to stand up straight and look into his eyes. "So we don't let anyone know."

Initially, they'd said -- in silent implications -- there would be no kissing. No sleeping together. No lingering. No feelings. No falling in love.

The best part about sleeping with your best friend was that everything was possible, and everything was negotiable, and it never had to end.

Adam led Fergus to the bedroom and undressed him with quiet confidence. It was easy to let him take lead. Adam guided his chin with one hand and kissed his lips until Fergus felt limp and pliant, like a muppet; he let himself be undressed, and watched Adam undress himself. It wasn't entirely honest to say he'd never thought about guys in this bed, but not as something that actually happened to real, living people who were Fergus Williams.

He let Adam lay him down on his slightly stale blue sheets and kiss him until he was a clingy, anxious puddle of desire. Adam looked pale and limned in light, and moved like he knew Fergus' body better than anyone ever could. He was real, and safe, and not going anywhere.

"Did you bring it?" Fergus whispered, as Adam kissed down his stomach.

Adam snuffled. "What?"

Fergus kneed him in the side. "Wanker. You fucking know."

Adam and his bobbing cock paraded down the hall, cute as hell. Fergus sat up, crossing his legs over his erection like a collapsed colt. Adam returned, fishing in the pockets of his jacket. He threw the garment into Fergus' gaming chair and hopped back onto the bed. Fergus took the bottle from him, reading the label for the first time. Silicon lube. Safe for condoms. Said 'anal' right on the label.

"Saucy bastard," he said to the bottle. "You saw things this week you can't unsee, didn't you?"

"Mm, he seems to be well used and abused."

Fergus rooted in his bedside drawer for a condom before his brain had caught up with what the rest of him had decided to do. He seriously contemplated creating a sudden work emergency like maybe a _war_.

"Fergus?" Adam's hand on his flank, soothing, a firm and grounding slide.

Fergus wrapped his arms and legs around Adam's body. Surprised, Adam hugged back. Fergus pried his arm from around his neck and pressed the condom into his hand.

Fergus whispered into his neck, "Will you?"

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I want it to be you."

Adam squeezed him. They sat like that for long minutes, silent, rocking slightly.

"I'm flattered," Adam said quietly.

"Shut up." Fergus had never actually had a devirgining experience, other than his own, and he'd put up a convincingly debonair front with that very experienced girl.

They laughed, and watched the ridiculousness of Adam rolling a purple condom onto his dick. ("They're from the health centre," Fergus apologized.) He beckoned Adam to come down and kiss him so he couldn't think too much about what was going to happen. He wanted this, he did -- he'd tried it again, a few times, in the shower, and it felt bloody _amazing_ to come from touching yourself inside. But it was so much more real, now, opening up his legs to let Adam between them; then Adam's fingers inside him instead of his own.

"Do you like how I'm doing this?" Adam said.

Fergus nodded.

"Do you want another finger?"

His mouth moved, but he had no words.

"Love?" Adam stopped. ( _Never before._ . . .) "Is this too deep? I don't want to hurt you, honey."

Fergus looked. Adam was staring down at him. He'd never, ever forget the wrinkle between Adam's eyes or the divot of bicep as he moved his finger in a slow circle inside Fergus' arse.

"It's not too deep," Fergus breathed. "I like it. Y-you can do another f-finger."

Adam leaned close and kissed him. Oh, god, this was really happening to him. Millions of men did this and they were doing this . . . Adam kept up . . . with his hand, until Fergus said it was enough. He lay back and pulled his knees to his chest as Adam kissed him, as if to chase away nerves he must be telegraphing.

"It feels better your first time if you turn over," Adam said.  

Fergus froze. "I can't do that," he said. "S-sorry."

More kissing, but Fergus wanted to run. He couldn't, he just -- no.

"It's okay," Adam said. "We can make it work like this, you're pretty athletic. It'll be fine, don't worry."

Was he worrying? He'd decided to do this, he should be fine. It was fine. He'd stretched, now it was time to play the game. He imagined -- had imaged, fantasized, wanked off at the thought of -- putting his legs up around Adam's shoulders like some porn queen. They managed to leverage him up on a pillow like a car with a popped tyre; he wasn't as flexible as he hoped. It didn't matter, he reminded himself. Adam leaned over him, and oh god, it was going to happen. He took a deep breath.

"Fergus. We can stop if you don't like it. First time, I hated it. You don't owe me anything."

He nodded. "Just fucking do it."

Adam nodded. He did it.

Despite the lube, and telling him to push, the first push wasn't the porntastic single thrust he imagined. Adam guided himself in with the tips of his fingers and pressed slowly. But _jesus fuck_ did he feel it go in.

"Wait!" Fergus said.

"Okay. But it's easier if I go in past the head."

"You're not in all the way?!"

It moved. Fergus gasped. It _hurt_. How do people do this? _Why_ do people do this twice?

"Do you want to stop?"

Fergus shook his head. Adam got lower, spreading Fergus' legs apart, to kiss his throat, lips, forehead. He couldn't see him, could hardly articulate what he was saying. _Okay_ and _relax_ and _I know._

"Move," Fergus said. "Do it."

"Are you sure?"

No. "Yes."

It moved again. He couldn't help the noise that came from his throat. Dammit, what was wrong? Adam's fingers weren't really that much smaller, why did it feel like a fucking rounders bat up there? He concentrated on bearing down, on relaxing his muscles. He would fucking conquer gay fucking sex. He silenced the stupid mouse in his throat that was making the noises.

Adam rocked gently. It was supposed to get better, he was supposed to get used to it. When Fergus looked down between their bodies, he could see endless light, and at least half of Adam's cock outside his body. He arched, trying to take more.

"Fuck me," he whispered. His stomach twisted. He couldn't believe he just said that. He thought it was weird when his girlfriends said that.

"Are you okay?" Adam said.

"Fine."

Adam touched his palm to Fergus' cheek, meeting his eyes. Fergus blinked, looking at his nose, chin, fringe. Adam thrust inside him, and Fergus looked away. He bit his lip.

"You're not okay," Adam said. "Dammit, Fergus."

Adam sat up.

"What? No, I'm fine!"

"Hold still."

"Wait, shouldn't I get some say in this?"

Adam's hands were on the flesh of his arse, and then the pressure inside him was slipping out -- more quickly removed than seemed possible. He was shocked still at his relief. He felt blood circulating down there, muscles returning their natural state.

Fergus brought his knees together and curled on his side, pitching the pillow onto the floor. He didn't realize Adam was in the loo until the water turned off and he returned. With a warm flannel, he washed away the lube from both their bodies.

"I can do that," Fergus said.

"It's done."

Adam disappeared again. Fergus suddenly and fiercely _hated him_. His presence in the dim room was announced by dips on the bed. He pulled up the sheet and the duvets over them, and spooned up behind him. Fergus let it happen. The heat in the bed grew until he felt choked; Adam's arms became tropical vines.

"It's okay," Adam said. "It sucks for lots of people the first time. My first boyfriend --"

"Fuck off."

 He didn't. Adam held him.

He felt sick, and stupid, and broken. He felt like he couldn't do his job anymore. He felt like everyone at work would know, and then the press, and the worst thing was that he wasn't even a completed poofter. Just a pretender to the poofter crown of fools.

Roy Cohn had gone to his death hoarding AZT and convincing the press he was dying of liver cancer. A gay man is a man with no power; and Roy had power, more power than Malcolm Tucker had. Therefore, Roy Cohn was not a gay man.

They really knew how to get shit done back then. . . .

Roy Cohn had died a miserable, arguably murderous closet case who'd still managed to have lots of anal sex.

Fergus didn't know if he was crying for the doom of his career, his missed opportunities, or his general humiliation.

"C'mere," Adam said, tugging at him.

Fergus twitched his arm away. He wanted a shower. Why didn't he call a locksmith the first night, a week ago? They couldn't work like this, now; Adam would probably go back to the newsroom.

Adam was older, but just as strong as Fergus was -- he tugged at his arm and slid his leg over Fergus' hip until Fergus relented, turned, allowed a modicum of affection. He pressed his face into the mattress and rested his forehead against Adam's shoulder, listening to his own labored breathing. Adam held the back of his neck and kissed the top of his head as he hitched and sobbed.

"It's stupid," Fergus said.

"Yes. It's very stupid." Another kiss, as Adam's thumb brushed moisture from his cheeks. "We don't have to do it again."

Fergus shrugged. "Do you like it?"

Adam pulled him closer; he allowed himself into the clinch. He buried his nose in Fergus' hair and took a long breath before speaking. "Depends. When was in a relationship, we did it fairly regularly. But I don't give my arse up to just anybody."

"Oh," he said softly. "Me neither. Er -- I wouldn't."

"It's--" Adam started, and stopped. "Having anal sex doesn't have to _mean_ anything, or not mean something. It's just that you're choosing to let someone do things to your body. And if something happens, or -- or it doesn't happen like you expect it to . . . I don't know. It's an intimate thing. I'm sorry it was bad for you."

"It's not your fault," Fergus said. He felt so tired, now. He was draped over Adam's chest like a broken toy. His hands unclenched, and the sheet fell loose from his shoulders. He wished they could go away somewhere with white beaches, where people went to tiki bars until dawn and slept on the beach all day.

Adam rubbed his back. "We can try again, sometime. If you still want to."

But he was slipping away. Fergus heard waves breaking on a shore, and they were on a beach in Brazil, alone for miles and miles. He felt Adam's hand in his hair, and London faded to a misty memory.

#

It rained their first day back to work. It was sluicing down the back of Adam's neck as he spotted Fergus across the lobby, shaking icy water from his socks. He was trying to shield his Mac sleeve with his sodden jacket and raise his hand to wave at the same time, but as Fergus folded his umbrella, a woman from Finance shouted at him for shaking it too near her skirt.

"Apologies, helpful civil servant!" Fergus trailed after her.

Adam, standing awkwardly between the lift doors, watched helplessly as a half dozen commuters filled the car behind him, and Fergus threw himself into an interdepartmental incident. He shook it off and stepped behind the closing doors. It was work, not playtime.

#

"Do you want to play?" Fergus said.

A Nerf ball sailed across Adam's desk. Adam winged the ball at Fergus' head and pointed to the mobile pressed to his ear. Fergus ducked, and the ball bounced into the outer office. Disinterested, he perched on Adam's desk and fiddled with his paperclip tray while he waited.

"Yes, minister." Adam smacked his hand. Fergus pulled away, wounded. "No, you're absolutely on track with those figures, let me just pull something up for you --" he pressed the phone to his chest. "Fergus will you please fuck off? I don't have time for a --" _subtle_ _obscene gesture_ "-- right now."

Fergus leapt off the desk. He wasn't some fucking intern with her twat hanging out her skirt. "Fuck you, for I've come with brilliant tidings. Fat Pat's stuck in the lift with Mannion, and one of 'em's having a breakdown. Terri's trying to get him out -- it's sorta stuck between floors and she thinks the power of her lust will lower it. Thought you wanted to come for a listen."

Adam's head snapped up from his computer screen. "Right, minister, you should have those -- uh huh. Yes. Just double-click . . . yes, or ask your assistant. Yes. Brilliant. I'll get back to you when you've decided how fucked you'll be when it gets out. Ta ta!" He threw down the mobile. "Let's go."

Adam slapped him on the back as they swept out of the room. "There's a press meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes --"

"I know, I know, do you think we should grease up Mannion like a pig at a county fair?"

"Gorgeous, we'll leak the pics -- it'll look like he's being birthed by robots, just as he was five hundred years ago."

If the civil servants thought their laughter inappropriate, they never said anything. They never did.

[/end]

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been about a year since I posted this, so I wanted to spill about how this story happened. This story is it sort of 'canon' for the RP blogs. 
> 
> I was a character in the RP. In OOC chats, I talked to Adam and Fergus' players and found out that, oh btw, Adam and Fergus RP were totally sleeping together. The players were waiting to see if the readers caught in, but no one ever did. (Just like in the show...)
> 
> So, I basically said "Tell me what happened over Christmas" and then turned their answers into a story. They approved of the result, so this story is, like, the RP canon you would have got if you ever got RP Fergus to admit he'd invaded Adam's home and life like a parasite.


End file.
